8.14.2018

it isn't owed and it isn't earned.

She doesn’t want to be held or touched but deep down it's all she craves. It can’t be too quick, too slow, it can’t be less than enough, it can’t be too tight. So how does she know? How does she know how to be loved? She doesn’t always. She expects patience, she expects understanding. Above all, she expects perfect love because she believed at one-point perfection was obtainable. She has nearly killed herself trying to be perfectly loving and perfect enough to be loved.
She is afraid to be abandoned, she is afraid to be criticized, she is afraid to be used. Above all, she is afraid that if she isn’t perfect she won’t be loved. She is afraid to leap where before she’s fallen. She is afraid to be warm where before she’s been burned. She is afraid to trust where before she’s been deceived. She is afraid to be close where before she’s been cut. She is afraid to be open where before she has been rejected. She is all these fears behind a shield and a sword.
She drops her shield when she perceives an honest environment, but she always has the sword at her side, ready to cut the tie. She drops her shield when she perceives patience, but she always has the sword at her side, ready to make time stop altogether. She drops her shield when she perceives understanding, but she always has the sword at her side, ready to defend against rejection. She drops her shield when perfection seems to be on the horizon, when she is impatient, the desire to be loved becomes stronger than her love for herself, but she always has her sword at her side, ready to bring her back to the only reality she’s ever really found a home in. Blood pounding through her veins, fists as tight as a sailor’s knot, the sword she is wielding cutting through her life. Everything is in pieces and she is alone again, not wanting to be held, yet craving it, she's home.
She believed at one point she was nearing perfection. She believed she could be the perfect wife or the perfect mother. The perfect lover or the perfect girlfriend. The perfect person. She believed life was a straight line. She failed to notice the loops she gets caught in. 

She didn’t know that love isn’t owed, and it isn’t earned. 
She didn’t know that every hard thing wasn’t worthy of the sword. She didn’t know that she wasn’t perfect. She didn’t know she could be wrong.
She didn’t know she could be anything. The road she’s walked with all these notions is long.

8.12.2018

card house.

I can’t go forward with my own cards stacked against me. Even if I built the damn house.

So I plow through it. The foundation under is a mirage. I’m running toward a fantasy built out of clouds and ice cream and sex. Real building feels foreign to me. A last life. A lost language. A blow to the head and thoughts can and certainly do spin. I rarely settle now. Its almost like I’m not sure how to. It’s been that way for a couple of years now. 

From the bottom everything changed. My walls were built initially on whims. A hand in the dark. I’d never climbed this mountain. I had always stayed on the other side of the bridge. Then I crossed it, and now I’m here. The bridge is not. It fell as I cut it. I saw it drop. I listened to it fall. I studied the sound to be sure I was hearing it go away. I spent worthwhile time there, listening. No way back, except in the narrative form. It’s one of the only ways I know how to prove my existence and I’m questioning the importance of that lately.

The fog is no longer my life. But the other side of the bridge is a climb. Every day it’s a climb. Some days the climb is rewarding. Some days when I’ve put in the work it’s easy. Other days it’s life shattering. Others break me. Today, I am going to take a break from the climb.